she just doesn't know it yet
by CplShepard
Summary: my first go at fanfiction, supposed to be a serious tale of Johnny Sasaki and Rat patrol leading up to and beyond the events in MGS4


**This is my first time trying my hand at this so be gentle.**

**I own nothing, all characters etc belong to Hideo Kojima and his army of minions who created the work of art that is MGS**

Chapter 1: I Love a Girl Who Could Kick My Ass

"It's hot..." groaned Rat Patrol Team 01's electronics expert, Johnny 'Akiba' Sasaki..

Lt. Meryl Silverburgh sighed at her subordinate who had been complaining about the heat since they were off the chopper --12 hours ago. "Johnathan, thank Akiba for his weather report."

"Gladly ma'am," replied the team's grenadier just before smacking the smaller soldier on the back of the head.

"Ow! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Johnny rubbed the back of his head and sighed. He wasn't exactly respected by his teammate... or liked... or even acknowledged as existing until his skills were needed. And at this point his knowledge of electronic devices really wasn't exactly useful.

The team was doing what it did best:

Sitting.

Watching.

Waiting.

Rat Patrol Team 01 had been deployed to the Bushehr Province in Iran as part of the multinational invasion of Iran, which started in 2010, dubbed Operation: Scimitar.

The invasion had started in 2010... it was now 2014...

Much like Iraq, once the Iranian government was gone, the country went into pure chaos. For the past four years, the coalition forces had been chasing various groups all over the country. Rat Patrol's mission was to find and neutralize local militia leader Sheikh Sayid Farouk.

Farouk's militia had been causing many problems for the allied forces in the area: roadside bombs, suicide attacks, mortar attacks. They were throwing everything they had at the coalition, and in doing so, at their own civilian populace.

"Alright, the Sheikh should be arriving soon, get ready everyone," Meryl ordered.

The team members assumed their positions. Ed, the team's sniper, put the bipod on his rifle into the 'down' position and aimed down the scope. Meryl laid next to him, watching the area in front of them with her binoculars. Johnathan moved to his position as the team's rear security. And Johnny...

Johnny just stood there.

"Akiba!" Meryl barked. "Get down before they see you, idiot!"

Johnny immediately hit the floor of the bombed out room they were in. He knew better then to disobey Meryl. He then crawled toward the huge hole in the wall where Meryl and Ed waited.

Outside there was a large square in front of a Mosque. Previously, US policy was to avoid even the slightest combat near these holy sites, but the Sheikh was just too big a problem in the region. He had to be dealt with.

According to a local informant, the Sheikh came to this Mosque every morning knowing the American and allied forces wouldn't pursue him there. That was when Rat Patrol would attack: when he had his guard down.

After a few minutes of waiting, a convoy of aging Soviet Army surplus trucks, and a beat up white sedan, pulled up in front of the Mosque.

"This is it everyone," Meryl whispered as Ed tensed his grip on his rifle.

The door to the sedan opened and out stepped a man in traditional middle eastern dress. To either of his flanks were to men in BDUs, their faces obscured by balaclavas. In their hands they clutched AK-102 assault rifles.

"Is... is that him?" Johnny asked, anxiously squinting at the figure in the distance.

"Yeah, that's him. Positive ID on Sheikh Sayid Farouk," Meryl said quietly. "Do you have the shot, Ed?"

Ed nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Take it."

And with Meryl's order, Ed pulled the trigger. The Sheikh's head exploded, splattering a gory mess on his body guards, who quickly dove for cover.

"He's down," Ed said confidently, grinning as he relaxed his hold on his M8 sniper rifle. Ed was an excellent marksman; he was the only member of the team to be handpicked by Meryl. When the invasion began four years ago, Ed was a regular rifleman with the 82nd Airborne Division. His marksmanship with a standard M8 carbine was unmatched, and he quickly rose though the ranks, eventually becoming a member of the U.S. Army's elite Delta Force. Meryl insisted he be brought to Foxhound specifically for this mission, to assure the job would be done.

"Alright, get ready to move out. We have to be at the LZ within the hour, or the chopper leaves without us," Meryl ordered her troops, who began packing their gear before she even finished speaking.

Ed's backpack radio began to crackle with life. "Rat Patrol Team 01, this is HQ come in, over."

Meryl quickly grabbed the handset. "HQ, this is Foxhound Six, go ahead, over."

"Foxhound Six," HQ began. "Satellite surveillance shows indigenous personnel inbound on your current position. Strongly advise to get the hell out of dodge, over."

"Roger that, Foxhound six, out," Meryl said, before handing the handset back to Ed.

"We've got to move, now!" she yelled, and her team did just that.

The back door of the building flew open. Meryl went through the door first, Johnathan right behind her. They cleared the alleyway in front of them; there was nothing, but they could hear the shouts and random gunshots from the mob of gunmen that was getting ever closer. Ed was next through the door, followed by Johnny, who had apparently become the team's pack mule, burdened by a large pack full of gear.

Rat Patrol moved slowly down the wall of the building, toward the street. Meryl was first to reach the corner. She slowly peered around the side of the building only to immediately jump back, followed shortly by a hail of gun fire.

A few rapid hand signals later, Rat Patrol was quickly moving about. Even Johnny, who was fairly incompetent at almost everything else, knew what to do. He drew a stun grenade from a pouch on his vest and looked over at Meryl. She looked at him and nodded.

He pulled the pin and let the grenade fly into the street in front of them.

The loud explosion and bright flash blinded much of the group of insurgents. The ones that weren't disoriented jumped for cover. Using this to his advantage, Johnathan quickly stepped around the corner and made use of the 40mm grenade launcher slung under the front of his rifle.

Another deafening explosion rocked the war torn street, leaving a crater and several torn and burnt bodies behind it. The opposing forces continued to exchange fire until several shots in rapid succession flew from Ed's sniper rifle, dropping several more of the Militiamen.

The other insurgent soldiers began to fall back. Rat Patrol was under the impression they had just won the fight.

That is, until the T-72 main battle tank crashed through the wall of the building they had previously occupied.

"RUN!" Meryl yelled. The four soldiers had no way to take out the tank, their only option was to get very far away, very fast.

The team quickly began their retreat. The tank, of course, followed, firing at them with its turret mounted machine gun, crashing through buildings, over vehicles, destroying anything in its path. The insurgents were out for blood.

Rat Patrol kept running down the street. Their extraction point was at least half a mile away, and it would not be easy getting there with the tank on their tail.

Johnathan turned quickly, firing a grenade at the tank. The attack had no effect, leaving no more than a scorch mark on the tank's strong front armor.

"Johnathan don't even bother! Keep moving!" Meryl ordered. With bullets nipping at their heels, the team continued moving. The tank, finally realizing the machine just wasn't going to do, turned its turret, and sent a 125mm shell toward a building just next to the team. The explosion knocked Meryl off her feet.

Before she even hit the ground, one of the other team members had grabbed the drag handle on the back of her vest. She was up on her feet in seconds, and the team kept moving.

Another city block down, and the tank was still on them. Meryl was desperately thinking of their options; they had none.

Then, with perfect timing, a very welcome sight sped around the corner at the end of the street: a Stryker Mobile Gun System. The APC screeched to a halt, aimed and fired its 105mm gun and hit the T-72 at the exact point where the turret met the hull. The enemy tank exploded, and its magazine of ammo went up in flames.

Meryl looked behind her. The whole team was still there. 'Good,' she thought, before turning her attention to the Stryker. While the armored vehicle did just save their lives, there were no Allied armored units in the area, or at least ones she knew about.

As the unidentified APC slowly headed toward them, Rat Patrol prepared for yet another engagement. They weren't sure if this was a friend or foe.

The Stryker stopped just past their position, the read door came down, and out moved a group of soldiers in a distinct tan and black uniform. They secured the area, and Rat Patrol let their guard down, if only a bit. They still had no idea who these men were.

Another figure exited the APC, this one being the only one of the men without a balaclava. He wore the same uniform -- black BDU shirt, tan pants, coyote brown MOLLE gear -- but instead of the balaclava/ballistic helmet combination, he wore a black boonie hat. The man had a distinct mustache, with red mutton chops down the side of his face. He was an older man, mid 40s by the look of him, and something about him told Rat Patrol that he had seen many battles in his time.

The old soldier walked over toward Meryl, snapped a quick salute; a distinctively British one.

"It looked like you and your boys could've used a little help, miss," he said in a thick British accent. The soldier held his hand out to Meryl. "I'm Captain Price, Praying Mantis PMC."

Meryl took his hand and shook it. "You have one hell of a sense of timing, Captain."

"Our UAV in the area saw the action. We figured we could help you with that tank problem of yours," the Captain chuckled. "Are any of your team hurt?"

"No, sir, we're all good to go," Meryl replied, looking over her team, who were okay, other then being rather breathless.

"Alright, then," the Captain said. "Get in the Stryker, we'll take you back the allied lines."

Rat Patrol, still not completely trusting of the PMCs, cautiously got into the back of the APC, followed by the PMC troopers who had secured the area.

The ride back to the allied headquarters seemed to take an eternity. The Captain traded small talk with the members of Rat Patrol, but they never took their hands off their weapons.

PMCs, or Private Military Contractors, were basically 'legalized' mercenaries. Many of them were vets of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Chechnya. Then a lot of them were people who wanted to disappear; criminals, murderers, rapists. Definitely not the best bunch of people.

But they had become necessary. The militaries of the world were beginning to rely too much on technology. With unmanned weapons like the Irving units, this resulted in there being too few actual soldiers on the ground. The unmanned weapons couldn't always complete the job, and they especially couldn't keep the peace during an occupation. That was where the PMCs came into play.

The Praying Mantis PMC group was the one operating in this part of Iran. Formed by a group of former British SAS operators, Praying Mantis was one of the largest PMC companies and also one of the best.

During the ride Johnny did a bit of research on this Captain Price. He was Captain Nigel Price, a veteran of the wars in the Balkans, Iraq, Afghanistan, and several 'black bag operations' that officially never took place. The Captain was one of the best operators the SAS had to offer, until he was dishonorably discharged after an incident in Iraq in 2009, which resulted in at least 50 civilian casualties.

'I don't like this guy...' Johnny thought to himself. 'I don't trust him, or any of these mercenaries... They're only loyal to whoever pays them. I bet they expect the government to give them some kind of reward for saving us...'

Johnny glared at the Captain from under his sunglasses. Something just didn't seem right about him, or his men.

**Murmansk, Russia**

Lt. Yuri Kopalev stood on the bridge of The Admiral Kuznetsov. As Russia's only large aircraft carrier, the aging vessel was being prepared for a training exercise with the rest of the Russian Northern Fleet in an attempt to show the rest of the world that Russia was still a force to be reckoned with.

They would be underway soon. They were just waiting for the captain.

"It's not like him to be so late. He's usually on the ship days in advance," Yuri said to the crewman behind him. The captain, Captain Girgory Chalkin, was on his way to the carrier via helicopter from the nearby naval base.

"Sir," the crewman replied, "I've got a contact on the radar. It's probably the captain."

Yuri raised his binoculars and looked out the bridge's forward window. There he saw an incoming helicopter, a KA-60 Kasatka.

"Strange..." Kopalev said suspiciously. The KA-60 wasn't a chopper that was widely used by the Russian navy. Yuri shrugged it off. Like everything else in the Russian navy, their shipborne helicopters were beginning to fall apart; it wouldn't surprise him if they used an air force chopper.

Yuri picked up the handset of the ship's radio and called out to the incoming aircraft. "Unidentified Kasatka, are you the taxi we've been expecting?"

There was no response.

Yuri called to it again, "Incoming helicopter, do you read me? This is Lt. Kopalev of The Admiral Kuznetsov. Identify yourself, now."

The helicopter was hovering just over the bow of the carrier, as if waiting to land.

Yuri looked over to the crewman next to him.

"Gah, perhaps their radio is malfunctioning...Ensign, dispatch a signal team to the deck."

"Yes, s--" the Ensign's reply was cut off as a bullet ripped through his head. Yuri quickly dove down only to see that the helicopter's side door had opened and a soldier with a sniper rifle was aiming out the side.

The crewmen around him were cut down before they could even react; they didn't even have time to scream. The fire from the helicopter was very precise: one shot, one kill, every time.

Yuri managed to work his way to the alarm on the wall at the back of the bridge. Just as his hand reached for it, he felt something press against the back of his head.

"I think your captain will be a little late," a voice said from behind. Yuri threw his hands up and turned around slowly. In front of him stood an older man. He had long gray hair, wore a tan suit and a brown trench coat over it. In his hand, he held an old revolver which he pointed directly between Yuri's eyes.

"Who... who are you?" the frightened Lt. Kopalev whimpered.

"Who am I?" the gunman repeated. "I'm just an old Russian Patriot."

The click of a trigger being pulled was the last thing Yuri ever heard.

Ocelot grinned at his handy work before twirling his Colt Single Action Army hand gun and holstering it in one fluid motion. He looked around the bridge and smiled: his objective was complete.

"Boss," a voice from behind him called out. Ocelot turned around to see Vamp, his second in command, or closest he had to it.

"The ship is under our complete control," the vampire-like man said in his deep, almost frightening voice. "The Frogs have secured the ship, and the Gurlukovich troops will serve as the crew and pilots for the SU-33s."

"Good" Ocelot replied. "This took less time then expected... How many aircraft are on board?"

"The ship's full compliment of SU-33s are here, fully armed and fueled, as well as the SU-25s and the helicopters," Vamp answered.

"Ha! Excellent. We won't have to go steal those too..." Ocelot replied, as the crew of Gurlukovich mercenaries entered the bridge, clearing out the bodies and assuming their position at the ship's controls.

"Sir, if I may..." the second-in-command ventured.

"What exactly do I plan to do with this ship, right?" Ocelot guessed before his right hand man could ask. "I plan to destroy the U.S. Fleet in the Persian Gulf. With it gone, nothing can stop us from claiming our grand prize right below them!"

Vamp raised one of his eyebrows in question. "How do you plan on destroying anything with this old relic..?"

"You," Ocelot said as he threw up his signature hand gesture, "under estimate me."


End file.
